Bad Actors (Slough House, #8)(60)

She let that settle for a moment, then said, “If you’re right, the real reason for Rasnokov’s visit had nothing to do with de Greer.”

“Give that woman a banana.” Lamb drained the cup and tossed it over his shoulder. “Rasnokov’s like everybody else, he’s doing his job but looking out for himself. Baiting you in the embassy, that was work. Whatever else he was up to, that’s what we really want to know. What’s in the bag?”

“. . . Excuse me?”

He nodded at her leather tote. “You’ve come from the Park, you’ve spent all morning on this. Don’t tell me you weren’t reading the output on your way here.”

Diana looked at him. “It’s Park product. You’re not cleared to see it.”

“Ha-de-fucking-ha.”

She reached into her bag and produced a block of paper, half an inch thick.

Arrival details from Heathrow, the luckless Pete Dean’s surveillance reports, interviews with cab drivers and paperwork from the Grosvenor, including itemised billing, room service orders, channels viewed (Sky Sports, CNN), phone calls made (none), newspapers required (Times, Telegraph), and the contents of his bin post check-out.

“And there’s video on the laptop.”

“Haven’t seen a good movie since Sleeping Booty.”

Cigarette plugged into his mouth, he lowered his gaze.

It was as if he’d left the stage for the duration, becoming all function for the minutes it took him to digest the paperwork. Diana thought of the boys and girls on the hub, their faces lit by the glow of their screens as they absorbed information. Lamb’s light seemed to come from within, as if it were only at such moments that he burned real fuel. She wouldn’t want to disturb him. Couldn’t be sure who he’d be if he were startled out of his reverie without warning.

Instead, she watched the park enjoying this last burst of summer. It wouldn’t last. Autumn was bringing its weight to bear, and would have the usual effect—when autumn descends on the city, its adjectives drop away like leaves from a tree, until all that remain are the obvious: London is big, its roads are hard, its skies are grey, its noise is fierce. Months to go before that picture softened. She wondered if she’d still be in her job then. Lamb’s story had handed her a weapon, but Sparrow came well protected, and it was clear he viewed her as a threat. One he intended to deal with. My advice would be, spend your remaining time as First Desk concentrating on more important issues.

The rasp of Lamb’s lighter brought her back. He thrust the papers at her, and she pattycaked them into a neatish pile on her knees. “Well?”

“Man likes a drink.”

“That’s all you’ve got?”

“What do you want, his horoscope?” He exhaled, and his head was wreathed in smoke. “How did he look at the party?”

“Not like someone who’d been on the whisky all night, if that’s what you mean.”

“Despite having two bottles sent to his room within thirty minutes of his arrival. Any hookers delivered with them?”

“It’s not that kind of place.”

He gave her a sardonic look. “They’re all that kind of place.”

“We have a file on him. Obviously. Twelve-year-old Balvenie’s expensive, but it’s his preferred brand, and two bottles is not without precedent. I’ve seen you put a bottle away before heading out for a drink.”

“Thanks for reminding me. It’s getting on for that time.”

He stood and stretched and yawned all at once. It was like watching a building collapse, backwards. When that was done, he said, “One and a half litres over a two-day stay. Yeah, okay. Not entirely unheard of, in my experience.”

“Wide as that most assuredly is.”

“I’m impressed he eats the bottles, though,” said Lamb. “That’s hardcore.”

And he padded away, leaving Diana busy with the paperwork again; confirming that whatever Rasnokov had done with the two empty bottles of Balvenie, they hadn’t ended up in his bin.





Act III


   Ape Shit





In the San’s basement was a gym, described in the brochure as fully equipped, but lacking, Shirley noticed, a wooden horse. If they’d had one, she’d have half-inched a couple of spoons and dug a tunnel. Instead, there was a row of treadmills, on one of which an idiot was walking at a speed that indicated she needed to be somewhere in a hurry, and with an expression suggesting she was late. Most of the inmates—the brochure said “guests”—seemed similarly wrapped, tending to appear calm to the point of disconnection while at rest, but harried by demons when they thought no one was watching. Another good reason for making tracks as soon as possible. Shirley was pretty sure being a mentalist wasn’t catching, but wouldn’t want to bet her sanity on it.

Her morning keep-fit routine didn’t take long—everyone always went on about how important cooling down exercises were, so Shirley skipped the workout and just did those instead. Some ankle touches, some glute stretches. You could hear things popping if you did them correctly, unless you only heard that if you were doing them wrong. Then several minutes of downward dog, the least dignified position Shirley had attempted without at least one other person being involved. The walls were mirrored, and it was impossible not to catch sight of herself: her head looked like a tomato this side of bursting. Time to call it a day.